


Rush

by marlowe78



Series: Wake up-verse [4]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe78/pseuds/marlowe78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't rush healing. No matter how much you want to, no matter who wants to.</p><p>Timestamp for the "Wake up and run"-verse. Following some time after Pause. Yes, you can read it without reading the whole verse. It'd be easier though if you did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rush

„No, Jensen. And I'm not telling you again, so stop asking.“

„But...“

Jeff pulled himself up to his full height, only slightly taller than Jensen but not by enough to really make an impression – it was more a thing of respect, and he knew Jensen respected Jeff more than he did anyone else. Except maybe Jared, these days.

„Lieutenant Ackles, you are not leaving this compound with my unit, that's an order.“

The way Jensen sagged, Jeff wanted to take it all back. But hell, the kid wasn't ready, not for this. He loved him like he'd loved his own son who'd died of a heavy fever – the flu, of all things. Considering their lifestyle as rebels, it was more than a punch in the guts to lose someone like that.

But he just had to look over Jensen's shoulder, see Jared's face and the relief written on it to know, deep down, why he couldn't take back the order. He wished he could explain it, tell him it wasn't anything personal, or the desire to protect him – though Gods, did he want to! - but there was no time. He had to leave, leave now, with his team. They had the great opportunity to free some more slaves, even get information from either them or their fucking 'owners' about where the next market would be held.

His heart ached when he watched Jared pull his boy away, already fully geared up and all ready to go despite repeatedly being told that he couldn't come.

Jared was a good man, sensible. He'd know what to do, Jeff thought while he strapped himself into his seat of their small fighter. In the last sertecs, the boy who'd looked like an underfed scarecrow the first time they'd met had grown not only in muscle but also in inner strength – or maybe he'd had it all the time and just came to realize it. Anyway, after he'd accepted his freedom, Jared'd gone all out to find the things he liked to do – and whatever he touched, he did damn well.

Sure, he'd struggled with the choices at first, like any newly free person. It was a much-proven policy in their camp, though, to never give a freed slave something to do until they'd realized that whatever happened next had to be their own decision, that no-one would make it for them. Had to be, because everything else would lead them back into the slave-mindset. And it was too easy in a compound such as theirs to start relying on eager helpers, too easy to just accept them and with that shove them unwittingly into another form of dependency, only a small step away from real slavery. Slavery through gratitude, and sadly, the first years of the rebel movement had shown them how volatile such dependencies were. Too many ex-slaves had started out grateful, too many rebels started expecting that gratefulness and a few years in, a second rebellion had formed itself, taking out some of the best freedom-fighters in a stupid, completely avoidable uprising.

It'd been a heavy price to pay, and ever since, freed slaves were treated friendly but without any kind of input from their rescuers, and of course a strict no-sex rule. Even kissing a freed slave was a punishable offense – and Morgan approved wholeheartedly.

Some times, though, Jeff struggled with the non-involvement-policy. He thought it was a cowardly way of dealing with the poor sods who'd been broken in body and mind. But more often, he just couldn't find any time at all to think of another solution. Sometimes, the other ex-slaves took them under their wings and helped them, but a lot of those chose to leave as soon as they could, or stayed to fight – which again robbed them of the time it would take to help the newest slaves properly.

Jensen had known that, remembered from before. He'd not bothered anyone, not waited for orders and directions and had started on getting into shape the moment the doc had declared him moderately fit. Jeff had been grateful to see it, glad he didn't have to see his boy cower in a corner like he'd seen so many others before. Jensen had seemingly picked up where he'd left off. It should have been a warning-sign, hindsight was saying now. Then, it had been a relief.

Jared, though, had sat around like an abandoned caff-pup, looking lost and lonely and sometimes, angry. When Jeff had seen the first glare pointed at Jensen, staring holes into his back after he'd left for some sparring, Jeff'd felt hope kindle and the first real interest in the boy as a person, not just as an attachment to Jensen. He'd known then that this skinny kid would make it on his own if he had to.

Now, he didn't worry about Jared anymore. His worries had shifted to Jensen, and the fear of losing him again – maybe forever, this time – crept back up his spine when he wasn't careful.

“Morgan, ready for takeoff,” his comm blared into his ear, pulling him out of his contemplations. Right. Mission first; worrying would have to wait for later.

 

**

Laughing his booming laugh, Dobramovich slapped Jeff on the shoulder, a little tightening of the grip the only congratulation for a job done well.

No losses of their own, some slaves that wouldn't be rescued, that they'd had to leave behind – alive, luckily, because ever since the mess on Thrasus, they wore full-facial balaclavas – and a lot of information from the slave-owners. They didn't even have to torture them much – just suggest to them that they might leave them to their former 'employees'. A nearly full success.

They didn't leave these... humans... alive, but they took the two kids with them. There might still be a chance, they were only ten and five after all. Jeff wouldn't admit it, but Marisha, one of the slaves, who'd been begging and offering herself to him to spare them was the real reason he took the children. They usually wouldn't, mostly just dropped them off in an orphanage along the way, but if someone would go as far as Marisha had done just to vouch for them, he couldn't turn a blind eye.

And no, he'd never take her offer. Had told her so very clearly.

Now, observing her be led to her new accommodations, wearily watching anyone who might take away the little charges clinging to her in fear and visible trust, Jeff knew he'd made the right choice.

“Uh... Jeff?”

Sighing, he turned around. Every little bit of happiness, of rightness faded away due to the look on Bobbin's face. “Yeah...What's he done now?”

“Nothing bad. I mean, nothing really bad. I mean, nothing that can't be fixed. In fact, he's already fixing it. I just...”

“It's okay,” Jeff assured the stammering Captain, who smiled tentatively. Steve Bobbins had known Jensen from before, before he'd been taken to hell and before he'd come back. He'd never been in Jensen's unit, but he'd always been good friends with Miller and the Murdoch-brothers. Bobbins had taken their execution hard and'd only just gotten his brain back out of the bottle a few sertecs before Jensen'd reappeared. Luckily, it hadn't tipped him back and instead the Captain had taken over watching out for the last surviving member of Red Team, trying to silently acknowledge Jensen's dedication to his own friends and serving them as they'd have wanted. Jeff wished the kids were alive to see the kind of people they'd formed, just by being themselves, just by being alive. He wished Jensen could see it, but he wasn't yet ready to accept that he was much more than just a fighter. “I'll go talk to him.”

**

He found him in one of the sheds where they kept the sparring-equipment. No surprise, really, and it was even less of a surprise to find Jared right along with him. For a few moments, Jeff stood just outside the doorway, listening in.

“Jens, c'mon, let me help.”

“No,” Jensen growled, voice rough from exertion or yelling, Jeff didn't know. “I broke it, I'll fix it.”

“Yeah, sure, but you could fix it more easily if I'll hold it close. C'mon...”

“Jared!” The hiss was harsh, and from the sharp exhale Jeff could hear even from his place, Jared didn't like it one bit. “Just,” Jensen's voice mellowed down, apology clear but not spoken out loud. “Just... leave it. 'Kay? I'll get it done, and I appreciate the help, but...”

“But you're too stubborn to take the offer?” From the sound of it, Jared wasn't appeased completely. “Fine. Call me if you change your mind. I'll go ...fishing.” He stopped, probably realizing that in the middle of the day, fishing was pretty much useless. “Or something.”

“Jay...” but already, Jared had left, nearly colliding with Jeff outside. Smoothly, much quicker than seemed possible with a former kitchen-slave, the kid straightened again and swallowed down his surprise. With a nod of his head, Jeff urged him to follow and they stepped a few skittriches away so Jensen wouldn't hear them.

“Jeff? How'd it go?”

“Good. No real problems, no casualties.”

“Did you get them all out?” Jeff shook his head and Jared just nodded, a passing glimpse of sorrow in his eyes. Then, he pulled himself together. “Ah, well. I better go check on them, right?”

“Yeah, that'd be good. Jared...” he hesitated, didn't want to shove the boy into something he might not be ready for. But Jared wasn't a real kid, not when it came to the mindset. He'd been taking care of the smaller kids and some of the older slaves ever since he'd found his balance, showing them around and explaining things that none of the fighters could find the time or the courage to do. He listened to them cry and sob, heard their stories in all their gruesome details and Jeff was sure that if it wasn't for him, they'd have lost more freed slaves to suicide or running away – which was just a nicer form of suicide that didn't leave the rebels with a corpse to bury – than they did.

“There's this woman. Marisha. Originally from Tolonga. She persuaded me –“ he tried to cover up his slip of tongue “us – to take the owners' children with us. If you think you're up to it, could you check on them? And maybe make sure she doesn't offer … well, services to anyone she might think a threat to the kids?”

“Uh... I... yeah, I guess.” Impossibly, Jared seemed to blush. Not by embarrassment, Jeffrey realized a moment later, but because he'd been asked to do that, asked for help. Apparently, up to now, no-one had shown appreciation for what Jared was doing here, not even acknowledged it. That couldn't go on. He'd make damn sure the boy got his due praise for the work he was doing, that no-one else seemed able to do, or at least not as good.

“Thanks, that means a lot,” Jeff added, then sighed and moved on to the other, maybe a little bit more important subject. “So... what happened?”

For a second, Jared held his breath, than exhaled loudly. “What did you think would happen?” It was no accusation, but still, it rankled. As if he'd had a choice in this decision! “Don't get all huffy, it's just... you know him, right? Better than I do. At least he just punched the bag and not the wall, but he tore it to shreds. Wouldn't stop, and I didn't...” Jared scratched his neck underneath his still floppy hair “well, I didn't think it wise to stop him.”

Couldn't stop him wasn't said, but heavily implied.

“He wanted to go along so badly...”

“Jared... I wanted to take him with me just as much. Believe me, I did. I still do. Whenever I see him, I wanna grab him and take him on a crazy-ass mission, get to see that spark again, that... hell, he'd always come alive on missions. More even than he does in practice. I know you know what I mean?” Jared nodded. “Yeah. I want that, but more than that, I want him back. And not just a copy. The Jensen Ackles I knew … he's … not gone, but not the same. No-one really expects him to be the same. No-one, me the least of all. But he does. He thinks he has to be the same, and that... that scares me. He has to be the best he can be to come along,” he raised his hand when he saw Jared start to argue. “and these days, the best he can be is not the man who was taken away. What happened to him, to you, to all of those in slavery, it is bad. I know that, but it also changes people. And that is not a bad thing in itself. Life is change, stagnation is death. So I can't take him along until he fucking stops trying to be the same reckless lunatic he used to be – and be the man who survived what nobody,” not even me “expected him to survive. With all that entails, all his strengths, all his weaknesses. You can't copy who you were, you have to be who you are.”

It might have been the longest speech Jeff had done in ages, and he'd probably shown more than he'd wanted to. But he knew that without Jared on his side, he couldn't get his thick-headed boy to understand.

Jared stared ahead, nodding silently. Finally, he shook himself and smiled. “Marisha, right? I'll go see her. Maybe she'd like to go fishing with me.”

He left, and with his own inner shake, Jeffrey turned towards the shed, steeling himself for the next battle.

 

**

Still outside, he watched his boy. Hell, Jensen wasn't a boy, hadn't been for a long time, but for Jeff, he'd always be. Even if he was gray and old – Jensen would always be Jeff's. No idea why his heart had latched on the scared, scrawny boy he'd rescued in Chalagria, but it had. He'd already known he loved him while Doran was alive. Funny thing was, Doran had felt the same unexplainable draw to then fifteen-year old Jensen, adopting him as a little brother without even thinking about it. The few sectems they'd spent together had been as close to a family-life as Jeff had ever known.

One where you sent your sons out to fight slavery.

Now, in the dim light, Jensen was stitching up the punch-bag that lay on the floor, using heavy leather-thread and a big, sharp needle to make the holes. It would really be easier if someone would hold the bag closed, but Jensen'd never been one to take an easy way out of punishment.

The tension in his shoulders intensified, and Jeff knew that his presence was known.

“It went well,” he started, and stepped into the room. It smelled of sweat and old shoes, and a little bit of desperation and a lot of anger, fury even. “No losses. I know you're interested in that.”

There might have been bitterness in his voice, but Jeff wasn't used to Jensen not being there when they landed, not checking up on him and the crew. He'd always done that, before, whenever he'd been grounded due to injury or something else, and that he'd refused to do it today... it hurt.

“I know,” came the silent reply, voice calm and smooth like he'd not been on the verge of breaking only a few minutes earlier, with Jared. A mask, and a really good one. Chilling, on someone like Jensen who'd always worn his heart on the outside, for everyone to see. “Checked on ya the moment the flight was in range.”

“Oh.”

“I'm not completely useless, you know?” Jensen hissed, still not looking at Jeff, still focused on the stupid leather in front of him.

“I don't think you're useless. I never thought so. It's just...”

“Just what? That you don't want me to go out and be me again? Get my feet back under me? You want me here, coddled like a little pet, or - ”

“Hey!” Jeff interrupted before Jensen would finish his accusations, taking the two steps over and yanking him around. Or at least, that had been his intention. Instead, he was on his back faster than he'd thought possible, the sharp point of the needle touching his neck, staring into Jensen's fiery-green eyes in shock. For a few seconds, or maybe even less, he didn't recognize the wild animal that was looking back at him, then it shifted back to his boy... into Jensen. As suddenly as he'd found himself on his back, as suddenly he was free again, Jensen pressed against the wooden wall, still shocked to the core. The needle was trembling in his fingers.

Jeff sighed, climbed to his feet and rubbed his ass. “This? This is exactly why I can't take you with me. Yet,” he added, hoping he would get that he'd always have a place right next to him, once the time was right.

Jensen swallowed and nodded, but the pain in his eyes, the resignation nearly tore Jeffrey to bits.

“Jensen, look at me.” He did. “You've been back how long? Four sertecs. Not even that, right? And you've been gone for three sectems, nearly. You've been tortured and broken – no, don't deny it!” he growled when it seemed his boy wanted to argue the choice of words. “I know, not in detail, but I know. I've seen soldiers break before, witnessing what you had. Seeing your team … like that.” He knew he'd gotten to him by the devastation in his eyes, the sorrow and heartbreak over being reminded of what had happened on that day. “I've been there, I... I wanted to crawl up that stage so badly, Jensen. I've … I'd have given anything to make it stop. But there wasn't anything I could do, nothing. I still feel like it's my greatest failure, and if I feel that way over them, I can't even imagine how you do. They were yours,” like you are mine he didn't add “and even if everything'd stopped then, it still would have broken you in two. Add to that what happened later...” Jeff sighed again, trying hard not to think about what might have taken place, what had been done.

“I know,” Jensen murmured, once again not meeting his eyes. “It's... I just thought...”

“Yeah. Yeah. I wish...” but Jeff couldn't finish his sentence. Didn't know how. Instead, he silently walked over to the punch-bag and started pulling the open seals together, raising his eyebrows towards Jensen when he didn't come over at once.

Together, the two of them sewed up the bag, Jeff holding it and not leaving room to argue, not giving Jensen any choice in accepting the help, and Jensen sewing in neat, surprisingly even stitches. Jeffrey felt himself swallow when he realized that his boy hadn't known how to sew when he'd been taken.

“You pick up a lot of skills, as a slave,” Jensen smiled without looking over. “It's not all about...that.”

Jeff didn't ask how he'd known what was on his mind – it'd always been like that with them. “Huh,” was the only thing he answered, and they continued in silence.

**

Just as they'd finished, Jared barged in, a dust-cloud in his wake, bringing with him the smell of fresh air and a slightly fishy tang. “Oh, here you are, Jeff. Gerrit's been looking for ya. Jens, you gonna show the kids how to gut a fish?” He wiggled his eyebrows and Jeff wondered why Jensen would want to do that. Jensen didn't even like fish.

But apparently, he did.

“Hell, yeah,” Jensen grinned, a slightly manic glint in his eyes. He stood, wiping his fingers in his leather-pants and put away the needle and thread into the bag they belonged in. He was quick, efficient in his movements, a lot more focused even on that little task than Jeff had ever seen him.

“Cool, I'll go get 'em. We'll be by the kitchen.” Jared left, and Jeffrey stepped in front of Jensen before he could walk out.

“Kid?”

He looked at him, question in his eyes but also the same deep trust that had always shone through, even when they'd butted heads. Jensen was a hothead, quick to anger, prone to blow up hard, but just as quickly, he would come down again. He rarely held grudges, but if he did, he held them damn long.

Jeff knew there was hate in his eyes whenever Jensen thought about his ordeal, about Jared's life and about all the lives stupidly wasting away in captivity. As long as that hate was still burning brightly, he couldn't take the risk. It needed to glow cold and hard, glittering like a nightly star. That's when it was the most useful, wouldn't cloud judgment. Icy-white and clear, that was the color of success. It was the color Jeff saw during his missions, or whenever he relived the night they'd killed his wife. It was the color he'd taught Jensen to live in ever since he'd witnessed his family's murder.

“What?”

“You know it's not about not trusting you,” except it is, in a way “it's...”

“It's exactly about that, Jeff.” Jensen smiled, a bit sadly. “And that's right. I know – somewhere deep down, I know that it wasn't the right time. It's still... I need to …” He was clenching his fingers, holding himself rigid, controlled but with fire burning right underneath his skin.

And just like that, he got it. Got it just as clearly as if Jensen had spoken out loud. Jeff felt his own lips rise in a mockery of a happy smile, felt his eyes burn from the tears that wouldn't ever spill if he had any say.

“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “Go gut some fish.”

Jensen nodded, a quick, self-depreciating smirk playing around his eyes.

“And … when you're ready, you'll be the first I'll take. I promise.”

He stepped aside, letting Jensen pass and watched him make his way over to Jared and the kids, not their newest, who still clung to Marisha, but the older ones who'd been with them for some time. He saw Jensen light up when Jared bounded over, shoving him towards the table laden with bowls of fish, and he realized something that should have been obvious the moment those two stepped into the camp.

“You're wrong, Jared. I don't know him better than you. Not anymore, I don't...”

He knew his words wouldn't be heard above Jared's laughter and the children's giggles. They weren't meant for anyone, anyway.


End file.
